


One-Shot

by Shannona



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death, Death Eaters, Drarry, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Obsession, Running Away, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29678325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shannona/pseuds/Shannona
Summary: It had always felt like it was one shot; one shot or nothing.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	One-Shot

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my incredible husband for helping me beta this story. 
> 
> This is something I have had in my brain for a long time and have loved bringing it to the page.

It had always felt like it was one shot; one shot or nothing.

One shot at a friendship, a pale and tentative hand outstretched between them. The faces of onlookers gathered around, watching as the two players of the scene weighed up their options. This was Draco’s chance to do something for himself, make his moments here count towards something that mattered for him, not his name or his legacy. The words of his parents ‘Do not befriend the Potter boy, he is more trouble then it is worth’ echoing in his head. But the hand was reached out nonetheless, the stone steps between them a chasm that stretched from here until the end of time. A chasm that would close quickly, abruptly with the end result of pink ears and a flushed chest. Disappointment. A feeling so foreign that it would slowly eat away for weeks and months, the hidden fear of rejection now prevalent in every conversation and the only way to defend against it was to attack, to bear fangs and grin as the violent utterings became hateful and twisted. He heard his father in the words that spilled from him, saw his Aunt in the cruel tricks he played and, although somewhere deep inside he turned away from the mirror to hide the shame from the shadow he was casting, the outside remained glorified and vindicated.

One shot at victory, the quidditch stands packed to the brim to see the boy wonder in all his glory. A flash of white blonde high above alerting him to the presence of a man he both revered and feared, a man to whom he was responsible, a man for which he owed his very existence. And yet, the way in which his smirk shone down on him today, a warning of what was to come if this was not a success, made his stomach tighten and twist unnaturally. As his green robes billowed behind him, the golden ball hidden from sight, his eyes were drawn to the burgundy blur that was Potter, the way in which he moved through the air like the wind itself. Draco had always been good at flying, hoisted onto a broom by his mother at the age of 2 as if there was nothing else he would ever want to do or be. Years of relishing the air in his face and the tilt and turn of a racing broom seemed all for none as his eyes were trained on him across the pitch. He was the very definition of natural; the balance, the speed, the instinct - there were just some things you couldn’t teach. And even at the tender age of 12, Draco remembered so clearly staring and knowing that his own fathers eyes were not trained on his only son and heir, the boy for which he wished he could be proud, but instead on the raven haired boy that would be his eventual downfall. And once again, he lost his fight and his resentment grew stronger as something deeper, something found amongst the hours of staring and searching, was drawing to the surface with alarming speed.

One shot at cruelty, the rumours around the Potter boy flying wild between the lips of all students alike as they bounded off the train. The whispers of his silent fear, a first to his ears; that he might be afraid of something so simple, so idiotic, was just like him. A plan set in motion, his brain turning overtime as he mentioned it to the boys face once, twice and saw those bright and forgiving eyes darken like the forest surrounding their home. In them were sunken the horrors of defence but realisation that this was something to hold against him, something in real time that Draco could use to attack and demean. The guilty party inside, the one rising to the surface, the one that noticed the slight pink tinge of Potter’s neck whenever he faced him, the one that watched the twitch of his fingers so intently, called out to stop, to end whatever he was planning. He may have agreed, may have listened to himself for once, until he was faced with the truth as a dementor shot out of the classroom cupboard and, for the first time it had seemed, Potter froze. There was no scream, no cry, no unabashed terror across his face; a blank slate of knowing and so, his cruel nurture pushed down his kindly nature and waited for a quidditch game.

One shot at fear, the silent face of his shame rising in his throat like bile as he watched the surface of the black lake ripple under the spring sun. It was a stark contrast to the utter contempt he had been feeling all year; watching as Potter once again became the centre of attention. Just leave it to him to get involved in a competition that he wasn’t supposed to, thrust once more into the limelight like a deer caught in the headlights. Hearing his name shouted throughout the hall had filled him with a quiet jealousy and, while the others around him erupted into shouts of abuse, he stared into the wood of the Slytherin table, shaking his head at the contemptuous nature of the orphaned scar head. But now, as the clock ticked down and the faces of the judges grew more worried; Dumbledore pacing like a madman as champion after champion emerged with their saves, and Potter had yet to emerge, he was afraid to admit that he was afraid. And suddenly a world without the great Harry Potter felt like a small world indeed; no annoying boy laughing a little too loudly outside of Herbology, no sarcastic remarks about his father, no ill conceived notions of being a hero. It struck Draco as to how much his stomach had plummeted, how he was unable to hear the voices of those around him and the dread within him flooded his senses. His father had made it clear that something was coming; the old marking growing darker, the murky whispers growing clearer, and if he knew anything about his Father’s past, it was that something coming closer was likely to end poorly. Draco knew he would eventually be split from his peers by more than just their houses and their dislike, he would be split by war, come upon them as children to raise them like pigs for slaughter. If Draco knew anyone who could help, even in the slightest, it would be Potter. And in those desperate moments high above the lake, he closed his eyes and waited for Harry to emerge and take a breath.

One shot at defeat, a dirty bathroom and a glance at a mirror. And for once he was not thinking of the lightning scar or the jade eyes that crossed his mind’s eye so many times. He wasn’t bothered with Potters terrible attempt at spy work, following him in strange hours, his map tucked haphazardly into his back pocket. He wasn’t, for once, thinking about the repercussions of Potter finding out. For Draco knew it was over, knew that nothing could be done and that vengeance would be swift for him, swift for his family. The blackened mark burning on his skin, hidden by thin layers of shirt, just visible through the sheer white, so dark against his alabaster skin. If anything, all Draco could remember was the pain as he was stared down by snake like eyes with red pupils, the shot of anguish up his forearm, clenching around his shoulder and tugging as it surrounded his heart. A life of servitude to save ones family seemed like the right thing to do at the time; the pride in his fathers eyes only slightly hidden by the fear that he had longed for his entire life, the kindly eyes of his mother as she held him that night as he silently cried away the remains of his young life. And what now? It had all been for nothing; the cupboard broken beyond repair, his friends alienated by his mission, his family hanging on by the brink of his nerve, his only seeming ally the ghost that attempted to cling to him. And yet, in an instant, he was there. The eyes boring into him through the silver, questions and insults slipping out like they were second nature. And within moments the tension between them had broken and their wands were pointed, curses flying, reflections shattering and porcelain flying through the air. And he was desperate, his throat tight, his knuckles white from clenching around his weapon, terrified of what would happen to his family if he did not walk out of that room and he suddenly heard the whisper of his Aunt in his ear ‘you have to mean it Draco.’ He regretted it the instant the word was flung from his tongue, hoping that it had missed him, but without much time to see when the pain of a thousand knives erupted across his skin and he fell back onto the wet floor. And then all he could see was emerald eyes, filled with panic and unshed tears, the screaming around them nothing but background noise as the heavy, warm hand of Harry Potter lay on his chest and under his head. In the moments before a Professor swept in and tried to salvage what was left of him, Draco could swear that he nearly told Potter everything, nearly gave him his life to do with as he saw fit. As if lying in Potters arms was something he has all but dreamt of for years.

One shot at redemption atop a blistering tower in the dead of night. Draco had watched them crawl out of the cupboard, their teeth bared, their eyes black and had run as fast as he could, determination stinging at the back of his eyes. He could do it. He could fulfil the order and save the lives of those he cared most about. But as he stood in front of an old man, someone who had done nothing but go against a great evil, he felt what little resilience he had left crumbling about him like the walls of Babel. Of course, the words spilled to him about being saved, about keeping him safe, about helping him blanketed his ears and Draco welcomed them. Allowed himself the split second to imagine how it would be if he left here with Dumbledore tonight wrapped in the security of the infamous Order of the Phoenix. Maybe he could successfully switch and be helpful, maybe he could make friends with people who weren’t hated, maybe he could have a chance with a boy whose hands were large and comforting. But split seconds and imagination can’t exist in a world where evil rules your every waking hour and so he allowed the others to take over. It was so easy to give up and give in what he had worked for all year, easy to yield to those more suited for a role that he should never have been given. Everything was a blur of shouts, pleas and curses and all Draco felt was the wet track of a single tear falling down his face as an elderly man was thrown off a tower, taking all Draco’s hopes for the future with him. Grabbed by the scruff of the neck, pushed past an ongoing battle in the sacred halls of a school he had so cherished, slipping over the blood of people not much older than him; he allowed himself to be led away to face much bigger problems and terrible celebrations. And of course he heard him, saw the young boy run across the grounds towards Snape and himself, screaming at the man about betrayal and loyalty and all Draco could do, no matter how much he was told to leave and pulled away, was to stare at someone who could have been his way out a long time ago, but that time was past now.

One shot at betrayal, staring deeply into the eyes of a boy who had become a man in the long months they had been parted. When he had been called from the depths of his room, the only safe space he could cultivate in this ever reaching war, he had feared the worst. But it had not been the Dark Lord arriving for yet another humiliating take down of his ancient family - if anything the arrival of three teenagers had made his life so much more complicated than it already was. Weasley was a mess of ginger hair, bloodied scratches and torn clothes; thinner than he had ever seen him, Draco felt a stab of pity towards the boy for the first time in his life. Granger, her mass of unruly curls dank and matted with blood and dirt, clutched tightly against the body of Fenrir Greyback. Shivers ran down Draco’s spine as he watched the spineless monster claw at her like a piece of meat, her small whimpers echoing in their hallowed halls. But his task, the person he had been brought to meet, was kneeling in the middle of the drawing room, pushed down by the monsters surrounding him and the darkness of his ongoing mission. Draco felt a similar weight, the weight of his fathers hand on his shoulder, so similar to all the ones he had steered him as a boy and Draco had followed without question. How had that worked out for him, blindly following the word of a disgraced madman? He was pushed to his knees also, and staring into the disfigured face of a man he knew was Potter without a doubt, he held his breath and worked relentlessly to keep his face neutral. Beneath the swollen features, he was there; the bright boy who’s darkened skin made his heart race, the boy he had watched fly and fall and face fears beyond fear, was here in the house that the Dark Lord had made. ‘Is it him?’ He heard the questions, heard the pleas from desperate monsters but all he could tell them was a lie. Of course he was sure, he would know this man if it was dark, he would know this man is he was blind; had spent his whole life, it seemed, watching him. He felt like, once again, he was atop the blistering tower and watching an old man fall to the depths below - this was another chance and like hell he wouldn’t take it. As he watched the man wrestle the wands from his hands with ease, as he watched him grip an elf for dear life, he smiled to himself knowing that they would meet again, and this time it was Draco’s turn to be owed a life.

One shot and a leap of faith, the grief flaring as high as the flames that licked at his swollen and burned ankles. He had tried to stop Crabbe and Goyle, making excuses about him belonging to The Dark Lord, but the boys were impatient, as always. Bringing them along had been a mistake, but with war waging in the castle he could not risk going alone. So many out there would like to see him dead, see his body broken against the grey stone. Sometimes he thought about it himself, how much easier death would be than hiding himself amongst the people he was born into. Protection was something he was drawn to, an easy fix but now look where it had got them? He clung to the broken materials of furniture lost long ago, internally screaming about the loss of a friend, someone he had known his entire life, as they had fallen into the rush of flames below. If the situation had not been so dire, he might have laughed about how many people had fallen for him, fallen for a cause that was set to lose. The Dark Lord may have fooled everyone else, even himself, about the outcome of this battle, but Draco knew that against Potter, no one could win, he was stubborn like that. And, of course, the hero that he was could not leave Draco behind, a life debt paid so shortly after it had been owed. And so he clung to the body of the man in front, balanced on the small, thin, piece of wood, chest to back in the heat of the room of hidden things. It was intimate and it was not in so many ways that it made his head spin, or that could have been the fumes emitted from the flame dragon that had reared up behind them. He could feel Potters heart beat; fast and unruly, could feel the sweat as his T-shirt clung to him, could feel his soft skin as the material rode up against his hands, shaking from the terror and adrenaline coursing through his veins. It was wild. It was terrific. It was a moment in furious battle where the two of them had the same goal. And then the moment ended and they were running their separate ways, but not before Draco flung his head around making eye contact with the Boy who lived, silently thanking him, silently hoping to see him once this was all over. As the dark haired boy turned and ran, followed by his own team, he sent with him a wish for survival and a need for him to win. 

One shot at a new life amongst the deep mahogany stands. It had been the first time in a month that Draco had been able to wear anything other than the thin, grubby material of his Azkaban uniform and he relished the soft cotton against his skin. More than that, the shower had been a dream, a dream to chase away the cold that lingered deep within his bones. It was the only thing he had been looking forward to, the opportunity to dress one last time before he resigned himself to his fate. When they had dragged him away from the Great Hall at the end of the battle, he remembered so clearly locking eyes with Potter and hearing him shout ‘wait’ and ‘not him’, confusion etched on Draco’s face as he watched the chosen one plead with Auror’s to let him go, only to have his Dark Mark ripped out in the entrance hall for all to see. Potter had hung his head and waved them on, making eye contact only one more time to smile faintly. Draco knew there was no hope for him ever seeing the sun as a free man; the trial was just a formality, his father had already been sentenced to life and he knew he was not far behind. Dragged by heavy chains, pushed into the dark wood chair in front of a full Wizengamot, he swallowed hard and tried to push down everything he knew; every emotion, every memory. But it became increasingly difficult when Granger took the stand, gushing about his help in the Manor and the way he refused to identify them, how he was more brave than she ever thought possible. Internally, he was hysterically laughing, unsure of why she would stand in front of the world to endorse him. And even worse; Potter took the stand and outright refused to allow them to continue the trial, that Draco and his mother were instrumental to the end of the war and of the defeat of the Dark Lord. And what Harry Potter, Boy Who Lives, Chosen One, Defeater of Darkness wanted - Harry Potter got. All it took was one handshake outside of the courtroom, their hands sticking together from the summer humidity, the nod of Potter’s head with a smirk and Draco Malfoy became obsessed with Harry Potter.

One shot at being worthwhile, weighed up against credentials and recommendations to sit in front of a panel. Draco had thought it was a stupid idea to begin with, walking into the Ministry not three years since the battle like he didn’t have a black mark both on his name and etched into very veins. He had finished his studies, got the potions mastery he had always wanted, worked as a small time Arithmancy major and then took some time off to help take care of his mother. It was Narcissa who had convinced him to enter Auror training, ‘I hear Harry is joining this year too,’ she had thrown at him surreptitiously, like he didn’t know that Harry Potter had been ‘secretly’ coming to tea at the Manor every Tuesday when Draco was at work. Draco had found his scarf here one day when he returned, picking up the offending item between his thumb and forefinger before vanishing it to the depths of hell. But his mother had worn him down, Aunt Andromeda had worn him down and then Potter had visited for Tea on a Saturday and had politely said ‘Malfoy, your Mother said you are thinking about joining the Aurors, I will try not to kill you in training!’ And just like he was back in second year, his ears red and steaming from the audacity that Potter had thrust at him; he grabbed the application, filled it with so much force that there were tiny stab marks from his quill and had thrown the letter at his owl for delivery. Of course, he had never expected to be invited for the tests, or to pass them with flying colours, or to make it to interview. But what he expected least of all was for the Head Auror to sit down, slide his application across from him with a sigh and politely say ‘I hear Harry Potter has asked for you to be accepted onto the Auror training programme.’ And the games with Potter truly began that day.

One shot at trying, the old ways left behind and the new ways or partners of golden skin and shaggy hair, glasses and sarcastic remarks. A trick played upon them by men of old, a test to see how long the mighty fallen Malfoy could last against the boy who had grown to save the world. If anything, they were furious with Draco, the dusty old men, for his resilience throughout the training programme; beating the odds to become top trainee on the board that year - even beating their ever so precious Potter. But Draco had watched Potter himself that summer; drooling over the bruised muscles he displayed in the spar room and the quick, effortless, wandless charms he was able to pull off in a duel. He knew that man inside and out, and he knew that Potter wasn’t putting in his best effort, so it came as no surprise when he landed under him in rankings. The whole Ministry appeared pissed off with the revelation and as punishment, they thought, they assigned them together. It was splashed across the papers; ‘Potter to pair with recovered Death Eater’, ‘Potter pulled down by the stink of the Dark Mark’, ‘Cruel Trick for the Chosen One?’ But Potter had insisted he forget about it and knuckle down on their assignments. Six months of solving cases and Draco started to join his mother and Potter for tea on a Saturday in the sun room at the Manor. The light would grace Potter’s face, making him appear a priceless work of art that Draco would sit across from as if he were an exhibit in the National Gallery. A year of investigative work and Potter invited him to his weekly Friday night stint at the Leaky Cauldron where, surrounded by the Golden Trio and an alarming number of Gryffindors, he was dragged into numerous conversations about ‘the good ol’ days’ and Quidditch factorials. 18 months, two promotions from Junior to Senior Aurors and their own office and Draco had found that Potter was now Harry and the way that he looked when he chewed on the end of his quill should be illegal. If Pansy was not so indoctrinated into the wizarding community of Paris by now, she would have been leaning across to him at Sunday Dinner, rolling her eyes dramatically and pleading Draco to get it over with and snog the lights out of the rat nest haired bastard; but she wasn’t there and Draco could not seem to work up the nerve to even look him in the eye anymore. He distanced himself, silently begging from afar that Harry would notice who he was, but instead Potter ran himself through a torrent of lovers, dragged through the headlines like the Wizarding Worlds bike, collapsing in tears in front of Draco when, once again, all they cared about was his name and glory. ‘I am never going to be good enough to be just me, Draco,’ he sighed, his eyes fixed on the whiskey tumbler, unbeknownst to him that the person who loved him for him was too much of a coward to ease his pain.

One shot at recovery, a dozen stays in St Mungos as a visitor sat beside a scar headed partner who could not seem to learn impulse control. A partner who drove you to the brink of insanity with the way they chewed too loudly, or pushed against you after the long day of raids and missions, or begged you for help with the crossword on a slow day. How many more times could he look down at the infuriating mess of him, the way his pink lips were always full, how his freckles darkened in the summer months, how his emerald eyes grew dark before October had even been fully realised. And one time, the positions changed when his reckless partner had not looked and Draco could see the wonder of him fading before his eyes before the curse even hit; could see the future torment, the partners lament - and so had jumped before thinking. He had become the reckless partner of complaints long past to awaken in a hospital bed, with Potter by his side, a wand calloused hand slipped softly into his own all too pale one. A small sigh and smile amongst the battle grime and tear streaked face. An understanding between them that nothing could erase.

One shot a forgetting, the small punishment of the mind, the betrayal of a family line and the secret of his youth becoming fully brandished before his very eyes. He was in love with Potter, had known it the minute he had thrown everything away to fall in front of the hero and had laid there, dying on the stone cold pavement like a common London rat, looking into green eyes and hearing the faint chord of a violin chorus far off in the distance. It made him sick. Being in love was one thing; Malfoys did not usually marry for love, his own parents had formed a bond of true friendship but the marriage had been an alliance of fortune and blood. But being in love with Potter was something else entirely. Draco knew that the wizarding world was not focussed on who you loved, their gender or their pronouns; they were so distant from the muggles in this way because in the early days of the statute of secrecy everyone was so focussed on blood supremacy that everything else took a back seat. He had known from a young age that people took lovers, that people were fluid and it had never bothered him. What stuck in the back of his mind were his father’s words ‘You don’t make a future with love, you make it with loyalty. A witch makes a future, a wizard is for fun.’ It was so indoctrinated in him to produce an heir, to carry on the line of the Malfoy name, that he never stopped to consider why he would want an heir to begin with. Draco knew he should have already asked to switch partners when they were offered at the beginning of the year, knew he should have stopped going to tea or to the Leaky or stopped inviting Harry to his Mayfair flat for drinks in the evening. He should forget every touch, every laugh, every bump, every hastily penned post-it note - but his dreams were haunted by the boy who lived, the man who covered him with admiration and respect. He would awake covered in a cold sweat, his heart thumping the rhythm of ‘Po-tter, Po-tter’ as he splashed his face with water. His fingers would tremble as he prepared himself for the day, knowing that would never be able to forget the unabashed smile that graced a beautiful face when he walked into their office every morning, or the cheeky wink that he received whenever he would offer a simple cup of coffee. Forgetting was an old man’s game, and Draco was young and in love.

One shot in a bar, a night that he could have so easily erased by turning him down. But could he ever turn Potter down? Could he ever turn away from the fight? And one shot made him ever so ready, ever so prepared to do battle with a man that had become something so real and yet so ethereal to him. He had turned down the invitation to a night out on multiple occasions, knowing that the mixture of alcohol, music and heat would do nothing to dampen the fire that was erupting inside his body when he so much as glanced Potters way. But the man had begged and whined and made a disgusting face so often that he was forced to give in, don his tightest jeans and horrifically expensive blue satin shirt and join them in a hellhole of Gryffindor choice. The thump within the club was so deep in Draco’s bones that he could feel the rhythm in his soul, pushing him towards the bar and into the bottom of a bottle before he could even breathe. The others had looked so natural, he was so out of place, surrounded by muggles, ears filled with a tune he did not recognise and staring at a man who made his mouth dry even after too many drinks. Harry had dragged him to the dancefloor, laughing at the shocked and disgruntled look that spread across his face as the, seemingly, thousands of other people packed into the tight space, enveloped him. The panic spread from his feet; the sticky floor, the sweaty bodies, the hot air trying desperately to invade his lungs. But then, they were dancing, every ounce of fear melting away as Potter drew close, as Draco lost himself in the feel of the music and the burn of the alcohol in his blood. Watching Harry as he danced was like watching freedom, the way his eyelids were partially closed, a small smile gracing his softly parted lips, his head falling back as he lost all control to the night. Draco wondered how he would look under him, that face telling him how good he was, how much he needed him. He let himself fall into the fantasy as his body fell against Potter, Harry’s hand coming up to burn the small area of skin that was showing above his waistband on his hips, his own hand resting against the other man's chest, fingers entwined in the shirt begging him for more, pushing to create a boundary. A small lean in, hot breath against icy pale skin; ‘I need…’, ‘Please don’t’, ‘Come home with me..’. Hands entangled together, a look over his shoulder to make sure no eyes followed them as they moved out of the club, twisting together.

One shot at worship, a body like no other, a body he had all but prayed for against him; both hard and soft, willing and unforgiving. They had pushed through the door of his humble abode, a place that Draco had only been once. Harry hated to spend too much time alone at Grimmauld, preferring his flat and the soft furnishing he had lavished it with. Within minutes, Draco had pushed him up against the wall by the stairs, his hips anchoring into his body, his hands moving; one to the small of his back, feeling the slight damp of his shirt, the other winding into the thick curls of his hair, finally allowing himself to become lost in them. As he rested his forehead against Harrys, relishing the soft breath against his face, he willed himself to be strong enough to endure this, the understanding that once would have to be enough, that Harry would never want a repeat. He could be good for him, make this good for him, if only this one time. ‘Draco,’ came the soft, and broken whisper of the man in front of him, the man whose knee had slipped between his own thighs, pressing against his growing need. With a shattering breath, Draco brought their lips together, kissing the man with everything he had, relishing the soft chap of his lips, the slight warmth of the tongue that he slipped across his own bottom lip. It was like kissing honey dropped into tea on a Sunday morning; sweet and slow and suddenly hot and running. Movement through the house was fast, items of clothing discarded along the path, a push and pull of bodies against furniture, an arrival into a dark bedroom, nothing but skin against skin. It was a service to remember; the renerveration of Harry Potter. The heat of two bodies moving together, his hands upon him soft and glorified as if touching precious jewels. The sounds, forgotten hymns, sung amongst the silent parishioners, adoring lyrics tumbling from lips pressed to the angles of neck, shoulder and hip. A slow sink of devotion, faces lifted to the heavens in ecstasy, eyes closed to the light of power that was strung between them. A final shout of benediction, the trembling and quick breaths, overcome by emotions as hands recited the long lines of tight muscle and glowing skin. Hours later, when the sun started to edge its way through the gap in the curtains and the faint tinkle of birds could be heard in the park across the way, Draco would find himself awake and staring. In his eyes, the soft form of a sleeping man, peaceful and unaware of his own deification. 

One shot at together, a word that Draco had avoided for years. He was much better at working alone, not trusting anyone enough to help him. Together had been the Death Eaters, working as one under the cause of a maniac, alone he would work on his task in peace. Thinking back to sixth year, some days he would forget why he needed the cupboard to work so badly, so fixated on the eerie fix that he could make, the work his hands were doing bringing him inner peace. He had been afraid of together ever since. He had never once thought that he would be able to make a together with Harry. The morning after, he had watched him intently, drinking in every ounce of beauty before silently dressing and leaving, hoping to wallow in his own sadness for the rest of the weekend. He hadn’t planned for the owls to arrive, for the floo to be ringing almost constantly, for the banging on his door. He had taken a leave of absence from the Ministry that day, had fled the flat to Paris and hoped to live out his shame surrounded by Pansy and her boorish friends. She was intent on partying every day until she dropped dead, or the incredibly rich husband she would one day acquire died and she could lavish her fortune on everyone she knew. The parties were dull, full of fake beautiful people who looked nothing like him. The conversation was sophisticated; political and full of drawl about the arts, he never once heard the mention of a Quidditch team. They all wore stilettos and chinos, no Indian takeaway stained hoodie for miles around. The old Draco, the Draco would have loved to be the centre of attention, would have breathed every moment, but now, without Harry, he felt like a shell. It was not two days later, Pansy was screaming through her apartment for him and he arrived in her front room to come face to face with Potter. His eyes were sunk, red and blotchy, his hair sticking up so haphazardly that he may as well have been dragged through a hedge backwards, he was slumped, his posture more atrocious that usual. ‘You left,’ was all he could whisper, his eyes trained on Draco, watching his every move. How could Draco tell him what his fear was? How could Draco tell Harry Potter that he was his everything, that he was so afraid to be with him because he could never amount to what he expected, could never deign to be anything close to good? ‘I know’ was all he managed, hanging his head and staring at the light marble flooring. ‘I just came to find out why,’ Harry spoke into the dreadful silence, the space between them both too large and too small for the conversation. ‘I’m not for you Harry, you are too great and I am too weak.’ Harry sprung forward, cupping Draco’s face in his hands, lifting his head to eye level and searching him for the truth. ‘What is great? What is weak? I have waited for you Draco, I am wasting away waiting for you. For me, it’s you or no-one at all.’ And just like the honey from days past, Harry leant in and kissed him, bringing with him the promise of together.

One shot at forever, a secret trip to nowhere and two golden wedding bands hidden in their luggage. Draco knew the moments of their life would be judged by their time together and the small glances of life Draco could see. Their forever would be early morning Sunday coffee, squabbles over the latest results and work, tensions running high, incredible families and friends and Harry Potter walking around the house in those low slung jogging bottoms that Draco adored and nothing else. He was determined to have it, and keep it and never let it go. If all Draco got at Harry Potter was one shot, he was going to do it well.


End file.
